intuition is for Fuzzy People
by Lavenderangel
Summary: Meredith is angry. This is how she handles it. MereCris, written for the Grey's exchange on LJ, a few months back.


Title: intuition is for Fuzzy People

Author: Lauren

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Meredith/Cristina

Summary: Meredith is angry. This is how she handles it.

Author's notes: I really struggled with this story. I've never written something quite this graphic, and I hope it lives up to the author's expectations. This is a missing scene from Wishing and Hoping, taking place between Meredith's speech to Ellis and her learning she was no longer lucid. I was originally going to write a melancholy scene, but this happened instead.

Disclaimer: The characters within do not belong to me.

---

Meredith is angry.

Her eyes are flashing, sharp and blazing, like miniature fires. Her small hands thrust things in her locker and appear to search for others. Even with her back turned, her rage jumps out at Cristina the second she sees her.

Cristina has never seen her like this. The sight is oddly fascinating, and she stands nearby, sort of smirking as Meredith continues her tirade, unaware.

The part of Cristina that's sort of sympathetic thinks she should ask what the hell crawled up Meredith's ass. For once, Cristina is able to tell that part of her to shut up and it obeys, like it used to. Still, it did succeed in making this whole experience a little less enjoyable. Damn.

Still, Cristina intends to continue observing her friend's descent into insanity.

Until, that is, said friend turns with a growl and catches her.

If possible, Meredith's anger seems to build, swirling like lava behind her eyes. Her eyes that are meeting Cristina's full on, and are causing any remotely decent quips to leave her.

"What?" Meredith snarls.

"We've established that you do not do sarcasm well," Cristina finds herself saying calmly. "You also should never attempt to pull off loathing and expect to be successful."

"What – "Now Meredith appears speechless, her shoulders tense. For a second, Cristina wonders if she is going to start throwing things. If that is the case, Cristina reflects that anger seems to cause Meredith to regress mentally.

"What the hell crawled up your ass?" Cristina asks. Intuition tells her to say something about Ellis, but intuition is for fuzzy people. And medical emergency's.

"I hate mothers," Meredith states, frustration dripping from every word.

And then, she is moving in a strange sort of way toward Cristina, a jumble of arms and legs that slam into Cristina. And lips. Lips that assault Cristina's. That is a rather important detail to remember.

Anger makes Meredith regress, possibly to the point of losing all normal thought processes.

That is the first thing Cristina is sure of.

The second is that she should not be letting this happen. She is sort of – almost – somewhere close to being engaged. The rules of engagement do not make allowances for kissing your best friend, Cristina is pretty sure.

And yet, that is what Cristina is doing. Because the way Meredith is acting – tongue is lapping, lips pressing, teeth nipping – are not things you can simply resist reciprocating.

Still, Cristina is cool. She is calm – well, as calm as one can be when your tongue is swirling on another girl's neck. But yes. Cristina has the situation under control. Any second now, she will pull back and inform Meredith that she is insane. In fucking sane.

As soon as she is done exploring the contours of Meredith's lower back, that is what Cristina will do.

---

Their lips had met in a jerking second, somewhere after Meredith had grabbed Cristina's shoulders, but before they had slid into full body contact. The precise moment really doesn't matter, though. All that currently does seem to matter is that their breaths are mingling, their hearts a joined crescendo against each other. Desire pools between them, hot and wet, like candle wax.

As she kisses Cristina, Meredith does not think about what she is doing, exactly. She let's her rage control her movements, let's all her pent emotions release themselves in a torrent of violent kisses and frantic fingers and god knows what else.

Not that it needs justification; anyway, some part of Meredith assures her. It's not like Cristina isn't kissing her back – because Cristina most certainly is.

But there is a difference. Cristina is kissing her, but her ministrations lack the desperation Meredith's are fueled by. There is desire, there is lust. But those seem to be Cristina's only driving emotions. Her movements are deliberate in their intensity, controlled in their languidness.

Meredith will be having none of that.

She slips her hands from their previously fixed position atop Cristina's shoulders. Trails them in slow, deliberate strokes down her arms, and settle on her hips – but only for a quick second while Meredith evaluates how this appears to be affecting Cristina. Then, her fingers stray even lower, sliding under the waste band of the other woman's scrubs, and trace the warm skin within.

The intake of breath that follows, sharp and hissing against the place where Meredith's neck and shoulder join, let's her know she has achieved her goal.

Meredith decides to pretend not to notice, letting her hand slide lower still.

---

As abruptly as this – whatever the hell this is – had started, it stops. Meredith's lips slid over Cristina's cheek one last time, landing fleetingly on the corner of her mouth.

Then she draws back, flushed and panting. She stumbles to the bench nearby and sits, running fingers idly through her hair.

Cristina stumbles away from the locker that had been digging into her back for god knows how long and slowly starts rearranging her scrubs into some semblance of orderly.

"Are you sane now?" She finally asks, when they aren't breathing quite so shallowly and she hopes the flush is beginning to reseed from her skin

"Mmm," Meredith mumbles shortly. She seems to be trying to replicate her clipped tone from before. Instead, it comes out more morose, rather than psycho.

Cristina drops down beside her. After a second, she shifts so that her shoulder presses against Meredith's. This is a different kind of intimacy, but not any less comfortable, Cristina determines.

"Good," Cristina decides.

Meredith does not reply. Cristina has not expected her to. They sit in silence, Meredith's locker standing open in front of them, the distant bustle of the hospital low in the background.

Cristina's intuition tells her this is good. For once, she is forced to agree.


End file.
